12.16.2005

Because colon cancer appears again and again in my family's medical history, I have regular colonoscopies-- a fate generally reserved for those over sixty. I'm thrilled to report that yesterday's colonoscopy went so well that I can wait at least two years before I return to my left side in the GI clinic. Here are the three most telling quotations from yesterday's exam:

Ereck: "The nurse who put in my IV..." [That's all I have to say to make Kenneth curl in pain and horror. At times, I've been known to tease and torture Kenneth by talking about medical procedures, etc. that I know will freak him out. In this case, however, I was just tellin' m' story.]

from Getting Ready for Colonoscopy, required reading provided by the clinic: "Start to drink the [gallon-sized] bowel prep. Try to drink at least one 8-ounce glass every 10 minutes. If you feel sick to your stomach, stop drinking. Wait until the nausea passes. Then start drinking again, but at a slower rate (1 cute every 15-20 minutes)." [Was this process conceived by a UW binge drinker?!]

Ereck, near the end of the procedure when sedation was beginning to wear off: "I don't feel that I've contributed enough to this conversation."

12.12.2005

12.10.2005

Last night, while dining alone at Wasabi, I sat next to two entitled Coastie chicks who greeted their waitress with "We'd like two misos, a warm edamame, a salad with extra dressing-- all ASAP, because we're starving." They later ordered a handful of rolls-- the sorts of things my Japanese host father identified as "sushi that isn't sushi." To my added amazement, they tailored the rolls: "Oh, and a Bucky Badger Roll, but I'd like eel on the inside and avocado on the outside. And an Inside Out, but with tempura on the outside..." The waitress smiled as she did their bidding, fetching the extra little plates and bowls that they asked for; the Coasties clucked and praised her for being so attentive. The talk about their appetites was endless and distressing: "Oh! I'm sooo hungry. I just want to order everything. But my eyes are always too big for my stomach: I know I'll end up taking half of this home." Since 85% of the women in my class wrote their research papers about female body image, the topic's been on my mind, and I wondered how to read the code of this facial-perfect, slender-waisted couple's talk about food. Why they were so hungry or why did they have to claim to be hungry? Were they enabling one another to eat? I thought of times in high school, when my friend Pace and I would order huge pieces of cake and then talk about how disgusting fat was and how much we disdained the obese.

As the women began to catch up with one another, they processed recent evenings out. One had blacked out at a house party, awoken on a couch and realized she had to get home, though she wasn't sure how she made it there. A recent romantic relationship began in similar fashion: the young women found herself in some guy's bed, totally ignorant of what had transpired the night before-- how she got there, etc. All of this in the most blase tones imaginable. Or, blase with a twist of giddiness.

I'm struck by the fact that these women really needed "one of those square little plates for [I missed what it was for. I was eating as well as listening, mind you]," yet, they delighted in losing whole chunks of a night out, losing control not only of their bodies but their beings. Maybe it's all just the same thing: they talk about blackouts and lost time in order to gain some semblance of control over those experiences. But the tenor of this topic contrasted so vividly with the delivery of their orders to the waitress and the melodrama of their famine. The latter two vibrated with a sort-of anxious need to control their bodies and environments.

It did me good to finish my udon, wrap myself in my Margiela scarf, and march out into the frosty night. Heading up State Street, I chose to walk rather than take the bus because lately I've been feeling kind of soft around the middle.